


Marked

by Cardinal_Daughter



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: F/M, Family Issues, Light Angst, Post-Cell Games Saga, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 04:37:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5403263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cardinal_Daughter/pseuds/Cardinal_Daughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vegeta makes a startling discovery upon his return from the Cell Games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marked

It’s dark when he returns. He’s always lingered in shadow, preferring the darkness with which he is so familiar. The darkness intimidates, conceals. In the darkness things stay hidden, unseen unless one knows where to look.

Alternatively, she is bathed in light. Bulma has never been shy, never been hesitant to reveal herself. From her clothing to her constant chattering, Bulma has been an open book ever since Vegeta agreed to stay at the Capsule Corporation to further his training.

But for all that she reveals, Vegeta has never been quite adept at reading her.

But now, standing in the shadows of the room that once was his- though to think of anything as belonging to him is as foreign a concept as most things on this strange planet- he watches as Bulma stands in the center of the room, a solitary figure in the stream of light that slips past the window to land on her creamy skin. She’s beautiful, and she’s exhausted, if her slumped shoulders and downcast eyes are any indication.

He’s exhausted too. This battle almost proved too much.

But he survived; he thinks he should be thankful for that, but in some ways he isn’t. His rival is dead. His purpose, his motivation was destroyed by Cell, and when given the chance, Goku had declined to come back, choosing a moral high ground and electing to stay dead so that perhaps his family and friends might be safe.

Vegeta wonders if he could ever be so selfless. It goes against everything he was taught; his Saiyan nature scoffs and despises the selflessness Goku displayed, and yet, he can’t seem to truly be angry at the man.

Bulma stretches, her back popping audibly, and Vegeta contemplates the fact that he still has something to live for. The woman before him- so loud, brash, and accepting- and the child they’d produced together: the boy asleep in the other room. His heir, the _true_  Prince of Saiyans. Vegeta, by all rights, would be the king now. He’s never been particularly interested in taking that title but he supposes perhaps it’s time to pass on the mantle, the imaginary crown that will rest its weight on the shoulders of his son, who will never understand the true significance of his heritage. His son has inherited nothing but memories and ghosts. Vegeta wishes he had more to offer.

He’s brought back to the present when Bulma tugs her top off and throws it carelessly to the floor. The sight of her in a state of undress sends a shiver down Vegeta’s spine and if he were a weaker man he thinks he’d step out of the darkness and bask in the alabaster glow of his mate’s skin. But he is not weak (or maybe he is?) and so he stays put, watching, waiting, wondering.

Her pants go next, and she tugs them off with a difficulty that makes Vegeta wonder why the woman insists on wearing such tightly fitted clothing. But then she turns to grab her night shirt, and Vegeta’s eyes catch on something, and he cannot look away.

Resting on her hip, is the Saiyan royal family symbol.

It’s relatively small, not much larger than the symbol had been on his armor plate as a child, but it’s there, red as the blood that his people spilled, marking her as Saiyan royalty. She is neither, technically, though Vegeta supposes he really isn’t the latter anymore either. A king to an all but dead race, where only he and two half-breed children exist to carry on the legacy. And yet, on her hip is the symbol of all he was, all he is. He doesn’t understand it, but the image speaks to him, whispers in a language he hasn’t heard in years and inspires a feeling inside that is so unfamiliar he almost doesn’t know what to call it.

Then he thinks of his son, the one from the future, and the word scrawled on the side of the boy’s time machine. _Hope_ , it had read. Vegeta doesn’t know what it means, but he’s certain that’s what this is.

Hope.

Before she can tug on the new shirt and cover the image of his heritage, Vegeta steps out of the shadows. Bulma sees the movement and tenses. But then she sees him, and her shoulders sag in relief and her mouth slips open in a perfect little ‘o’ and his name is a whisper of a breath that slams into him harder than any attack made by Cell.

He says nothing, merely steps up to her, pulls the shirt out of her hand with a gentleness that surprises even him, tosses it away, then rests a gloved hand on her hip. His fingers trail over the symbol, tracing the pattern just as he used to do as a child. He’s long since memorized the shape, could recreate it from memory; he knows every jagged edge and curve similarly to how he knows the edges and curves of the woman before him. All too well and yet not enough.

Bulma doesn’t say anything more, just breathes. Hearing her breath, the skipping beat of her heart is all Vegeta needs for the moment, and he stares at the blood red swirl that rests just above the material of her underwear.

He has so many questions, but he can only voice them in a single, pained word: _“Why?”_

With that same confident carelessness she so often displays, Bulma shrugs. “Because I didn’t know if you were coming back.”

He looks up at her then, meeting the large, cerulean eyes that haunted him during his time away. “You doubted me?” He asks, genuinely hurt. She can’t help but roll her eyes.

“No, you moron,” she says, her tone carrying the same dry, sarcastic lilt she always uses with him, but softer this time. There’s a tenderness to it now, an intimacy to the way she speaks to him, and Vegeta almost recoils from the unfamiliar sensation. “I never doubted you would win; I doubted that you would come back.”

_Here_ , he thinks,  _she means here. To her._

“I never promised I would,” he says, and whether it’s a reminder or a confession he doesn’t know.

“I know,” she replied easily, “Hence the tattoo.”

He’s still tracing it, and he can hear Bulma’s breath shudder as it did that first night he took her to his bed. Memories flood his mind but he pushes past them to focus on the Bulma before him, not the one that lingers in his dreams.

“Again,” he says, “Why?”

She seems to sober now. Her hands catches his at her hip, but she doesn’t try to remove his touch. She merely holds him there, pressing ever so slightly as if encouraging him to hold her as he’s done before.

“When you left,” she says looking down at the space between them, “I was so angry. I mean, I understood; I was a distraction. You made that clear. But it still hurt, you know? And yet I couldn’t….I couldn’t hate you for it, but I didn’t like it. Then,” she sighs, the sound as heavy as if she were struggling under increased gravity from her own machine, “I found out about Trunks. And suddenly that was all that mattered. I _needed_  him to know. If you didn’t come back, someone needed to tell him who he was. I only know a little from what Goku’s learned over the years, and the few things you’ve told me. It wasn’t enough. My son is the heir to a kingdom, and he was going to  _know_.”

She looks up then, to meet his eyes, and that sparkle in her own that so often catches him off guard is once more present, and he finds that no matter how many times he sees her look at him this way, he can’t help but fear that it will be the last. He’s not a man of tender touches and shy glances. He’s a warrior that uses his hands to break and destroy. And yet she not only allows his touch, she encourages it.

“So I did some digging,” she continues, “Found your old armor and the crest. I don’t know what made me decide to do it. I was missing you terribly one day. Trunks had just been born and he was throwing a fit and I was tired and miserable and I just wanted to _hit_ you-” she does so now, an open palm smack to his chest that unsurprisingly does nothing. “-Because if I could it would mean that you were  _here_. And I just….handed Trunks off to my mother, took a picture of the symbol, found the nearest tattoo parlor that had a good rating and had them stick it on me.”

She gently nudges Vegeta’s hand out of the way to stroke the symbol herself. Smiling sadly, she adds, “Having it, seeing it every day as I dressed, helped keep you here with me.”

All his life, Vegeta has followed orders. At the behest of his commanders, he’s fought, maimed, and killed. Even when he raged inside, rebellion straining to burst forth just like the power of the Super Saiyan had, he’d done what he was told. Ordered. Vegeta is a man who knows how to follow orders, whether they come from Frieza or a long-held sense of duty and necessity toward his people. But through it all, he’s never been asked what  _he_  wants. He’s been given authority to make decisions, but no one has ever taken a moment to ask Vegeta his opinion. But here in this moment, he can see Bulma’s action for what it truly is: a choice. She’d gotten the thing on impulse, to keep him close to her should he not return. And that was the beauty of it. She hadn’t known whether or not he would, only hoped- and there was that word again- that he  _might._  She’s made no demands of him, beyond ‘stop breaking the damn gravity machine, you big lummox!’ and even now, when she’s all but made it clear that she is his, she does not demand that he return the sentiment.

He’s never been given a choice like this before. He’s never been given a  _choice_. He knows now that he didn’t come back out of some ingrained sense of duty; the kind that drives him to be the best, to become stronger, to deserve the title he was born into. There is no obligation here. He came back because he wants to be here. He’s never known the meaning of ‘home’, but he looks at the woman before him, standing exposed with his seal marking her skin, and he understands. Just like that strange feeling of hope that bloomed before, he recognizes Bulma, this room, this building, this planet, for what it has become.

_His._

“I’m here now,” he whispers and the words are so disgustingly sweet he nearly chokes on them. Bulma lets out the smallest breath through her nose, but it’s enough for him to know she heard. At least he won’t have to repeat them. He’s not sure if he can.

Bulma leans forward, her forehead touching his in an intimate gesture that is so strange but needed, and Vegeta’s fingers twitch against her skin. “So you are,” she sighs, “And in one piece, thank goodness.” Her hands drift up to lay against the expanse of his chest. As small as her hands are, the pressure of their weight is staggering. No one touches Vegeta with anything but intent to harm.

Except Bulma. Bulma, even if she  _could_  hurt him, wouldn’t. He doesn’t know how he knows that, but he knows it as innately as he knows anything else. It’s a sentiment ingrained in his very core, the knowledge that Bulma is the one person on this planet, in the universe, that will never betray him. He doesn’t know what to do with that understanding.

“Why your hip?”

“Hmm?” She’s distracted. Their relationship has always been founded on the physical, even as a deeper bond sprouted like grass through cracks in concrete. But even as they began to understand each other, even as they grew to appreciate each other for their minds, Bulma still can’t help but be pleasantly distracted by his physicality. Her nails scrape ever so slightly against the rock hard material of Vegeta’s armor, and though he can barely feel it, he shivers all the same.

He takes her hands to shift her focus and asks again. “Why did you place my symbol on your hip?”

She glances down at the spot for a moment. “I wanted it somewhere private,” she says after a moment, “And that,” she said, in reference to her hip, “Was where my first bruise from you came from. The first time we had sex, do you remember?” Vegeta blushes at her easy ability to speak of their most intimate moments, but nods, and she giggles, “I was purple for a week. You’ve got a good grip, pal.” She winks. “It seemed like the perfect place to permanently put your mark.”

“I-I don’t understand,” he says finally, ashamed to admit it even as he’s desperate for her to explain. She likes to explain things: she’s spent hours explaining what she was doing to the gravity machine while she repaired it, and despite his outward insistence that he didn’t care, he’d secretly been enraptured by every word. She’s a scientist, words and equations are her language. Vegeta is confused by many things on this planet, but the whirs and whistles of machinery, the swirls and twists of equations are a familiar sight. He knows these things, can understand them- though perhaps not as expertly as Bulma- but it’s in the midst of formulas and groaning metals that the two of them first found their shared dialect.

She seems pleased by his confession of ignorance. She usually is. “I love you, silly,” she says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “And I know you don’t really do the whole ‘love’ thing, but you should have someone who loves you all the same.” She leans away slightly and smiles with that same confident assurance that ultimately won him over before, “And I do. Lifting a hand, she playfully bops him on the nose, a gesture meant to lighten the weight of her confession.

Vegeta doesn’t know what it means to be loved, or how to love in return, but the feeling that wells up in him- similar to the one he’s named  _hope_  but much brighter and more urgent- spurs him forward again. He pulls Bulma to him, one arm around her shoulders, the other resting on her hip where the tattoo rests, and kisses her with the desperation of a man who has just found water after days of searching. As usual, Bulma responds immediately, her arms winding around his waist to tug him closer. She’s always been like this: willing, eager, _wanting._

He’d known early on that she was attracted to him. He’d been attracted to her. So much that he’d been the one to break and kiss her the first time. She’d been explaining something about the gravity machine to him. One of the sensors that directed a response to the mainframe that calculated the pressure and weight of gravity had malfunctioned, and she had been in the middle of telling him just what she’d done to fix it when he grabbed her- hands on her hips- and kissed her. She’d been covered in grease and sweat, but her lips had been sweet.

They’re sweet now, minty from where she’s brushed her teeth and he breathes in the scent of her, fresh and clean. Vegeta has yet to appreciate the sweet confections that Earthlings are so fond of, but he is addicted to the taste of Bulma. He craves her,  _wants_  her, and somehow that’s better than need because need implies he has no choice in the matter and something in him wants with great desperation to choose this woman.

Like she’s chosen him.

He moves her back to the bed, pushing her down and moving to hover over her. Her eyes are wide, the cerulean vanished by a dark cloud of midnight blue desire, and he trails kisses over her body, each one a whispered declaration:  _I’m here and I’m yours._

He reaches her hip, smirks as he feels her tremble beneath him, and presses his lips to the seal of her devotion, her loyalty, on her skin. She would make an incredible queen, he thinks idly. If he closes his eyes he can see her draped in Saiyan finery, standing tall and proud at his side as they rule together. She would be his equal, his match in every way, and the world would  _shake_  from the intensity of their disagreements. She would be respected, feared,  _loved._

But she needs no planet to reign. She is already a queen in her own right, and she has chosen him worthy of her attention. He  _isn’t_  worthy, he thinks, but the swirls on her hip tells him otherwise.

So he’ll strive to be. It’s a noble goal, one that he will pursue with every ounce of determination in him.

He slides back up so that he can look at her, and growls, trying to sound uninterested, “I do, too.”

It’s as close as he can get to saying the words, and maybe one day they won’t feel so heavy on his tongue. Maybe one day he’ll be able to gift them to her, but for now, he sees her eyes flutter, feels the sharp rise of her chest as she gasps, and he knows that it’s enough.

“Well I’ll be damned,” she says, once more her cocky, certain self, trying to hide what her body has already revealed: his confession, however small it is, is everything she’s ever wanted. He could offer her entire planets, and yet all she wants is him.

“You are,” he says gruffly, resting his forehead on hers, returning the gesture she made earlier. It’s always been easier to follow her lead in these things. “You’ve marked yourself as mine. You’ve damned yourself to a life with me.”

She says nothing, merely reaches around him to unlatch his armor and toss it onto the floor. His gloves are next, followed by the shirt of his spandex under-layer. And when his chest is bared for her hungry eyes, she lifts her head and presses a kiss over the place that shields his heart. It’s not a tattoo; but she’s marked him just the same.

“I can think of worse things.”

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any mistakes. I have no beta. 
> 
> I've been a fan of Dragon Ball Z since around 1998, but I've never actually written anything for the series until now. I hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> If you like this story, and are interested in my other works, please check me out here or on tumblr. My user name is the same. 
> 
> There will hopefully be more Vegeta x Bulma fics from me in the future, so stay tuned! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Ball, Dragon Ball Z, or any of its characters. I am not making any money off this fic.


End file.
